World Weary
by shrewface
Summary: What might have happened if Xander had managed to travel furthur than Oxnard after High-school ... much furthur. Slash Warning in later chapters.


_**This is my take on what may have happened if Xander had ventured a hell of a lot further than Oxnard after High-school, thanks to a wad of money left to him when his grandmother died.**_

_Chapter One_

"_Yal hemaar_!" Xander yelled at the car which had very nearly squashed him flat. He'd learned to cuss in Arabic remarkably quickly, and that the words were in constant usage when it came to the Egyptian roads. The primary rule of the road was: Ignore all rules and drive as fast as you can.

"You are a true arab, my brother." Zaida laughed, her heavy accent making it nearly impossible for a foreigner to get the gist of what she said – but Xander no longer truly counted as a foreigner. "Hurry, we must be at the shop before the sun sets. I don't want to fight the _masaas demaa' _without a weapon." She added, more somber as her eyes scanned the ally ways with a falcon's scrutiny. She refused to just call vampires 'vampires' instead of _masaas demaa'_, which in Xander's opinion, was a mouth full of too many sounds-you-make-when-you're-gunna-puke words.

"You worry way too much. Chill a little or next you'll start wiping your glasses and drinking tea and I'll start calling you annoying nicknames, like I did G-man. " He paused thoughtfully, "Maybe I could call you Z-girl. Or Dia-bolical. You know, I remember Giles would mumble about bollocks when he was mad, and that sounds a lot like diabolical. Wesley did too. Maybe it's a British thing." He mused. Zaida stared. She blinked. She shook her head.

"Three months I have known you – and still, you talk in riddles. Crazy American." She muttered, rolling her eyes before continuing her strides. Xander chuckled fondly and followed, making sure he gave the edge of the sidewalk a wide berth to avoid a car turning him into a Xander-smudge on the streets.

They arrived at the bustling market on time, despite Zaida's worries, and Xander couldn't help the smug little smile he flashed her. She flashed the finger at him in return, scowling.

"You are a true American, my sister." He teased, adopting an uncomfortably accurate imitation of her. Practice makes perfect. They stepped into a small shop on the corner, which looked indiscernible from the other hundreds of shops and stalls. Until you stepped inside, that is. It was a magical supplies shop, one of the best in the world. It was enchanted to look tiny, but when you stepped inside you saw it was nearer the size of Sunnydale High -- Before it was blown up and attacked by the evil mayor-snake ... and not in that order, either.

"_Salam alaikum, ya Sayad _Zaander," Ali said cheerily from behind the counter (which meant, "Hi Mr. Xander", only longer), grabbing Xander and kissing him on both cheeks, which Xander returned. No. He was not having a rampant affair with Ali (note the mental "ew!" Xander may now grudgingly admit he's as gay as a rhinestone tiara, but Ali was about 50, balding, sweaty and wobbly – kissing cheeks was just a local custom. One which had given Xander the freaks when he first arrived in Arabia and his very male landlord had given him a smooch when he bought his apartment. Ali pointedly flashed a glare at Zaida, not offering her any greeting. They had never got along well, but Ali had been particularly less fond of her since she'd broken his nose for calling her Xander's bride-to-be. Xander wasn't sure if he should be offended or not.

"_Alaikum wa salam, Ali._" Xander replied, ignoring Zaida's derisive snort at his pronunciation.

"What you have got for me?" Ali asked, clapping his hands together and eyeing the bag strapped to Xander's back. Xander carefully took it off and placed the bag on the counter top, pulling out a shrunken Targoff's head wrapped in plastic and an orb of Darukan carefully stored in bubble-wrap. Ali picked up both items, inspecting them with the cracked monocle he kept in his pocket. He hmm'ed and haaa'd over them for a few minutes, like he always did, though it was perfectly clear he was interested. Xander cleared his throat. Ali seemed to get the message. "I give you … 70 dinars for all." He said, finally. Xander threw his hands up in the air.

"Ali! Come on, man! An orb of Darukan alone is worth twice times that, at least." Xander said, his voice over-loud and his gestures over expressive. The ways of haggling. This was what he did for a living now. Zaida couldn't read or write, so she acquired the magical artifacts through connections he didn't want to know about, then he'd work out it's worth and who they should try and sell it to. Profits were split 40-60. No prizes for guessing who was left with the smaller percentage … but it was fair enough, and he liked Zaida with her weird sayings and wiggy sense of humor, so things weren't too bad. Things were pretty good, actually.

They continued to argue prices until Zaida pointed out they only had an hour until sunset and she cracked her knuckles, staring pointedly at Ali's nose. Ali had dabbed his sweaty forehead with a well-used handkerchief and had finally agreed to a final price. 200 dinars for that lot. Tidy profit, considering he highly suspected Zaida hadn't paid for the artifacts. He hardly ever asked her about her less than legal methods, and if he did, she'd always reply 'the grace of Allah' had blessed her and they left it at that.

It was funny, the way they had met. Two days after he'd arrived here, in Cairo, he'd found himself face to face with yes, you guessed it, a genuine flesh eating mummy. The 'Xander The Fabulous Demon Magnet' thing obviously wasn't exclusive to being in the U.S of A. Zaida had been there just in time to lop it's head off with an old shovel. She wasn't a slayer, just a smart street urchin with a grudge against all things demon-y. Suited Xander just fine. They worked out a deal – which had not been an easy task when Xander's knowledge of Arabic language was nil and all Zaida could say in English was 'tourists should go eat dung beetles for mid afternoon tea' (Xander had spent many an hour pondering over where she picked the phrase, but to no avail).

Ever since then, they had been business partners, and something similar to friends, following an unspoken rule. Neither wanted to talk about their past. For Xander, it was too complicated and yeah, too painful. For Zaida, it required more swear words than she knew in English. She had been fourteen when they first met, but Xander would wager she knew more about the scams and black markets than Sunnydale's demon bar tender Willy could ever hope to.

"Xander …" Zaida began. He'd grown so used to the different pronunciation he barely noted it anymore. She didn't call him Zan-der. She called him Zaan-derr. Like a cat purring. In a cute way. Not in a sexy kitten way, because that would be gross. Really gross. Besides he's gay now. Not that he'd done much to cement the fact. His mental checklist of bed partners consisted of and abysmal three and a half. The half went to Cordelia the Bitch Queen (because they'd never quite gone all the way), Faith the Evil Slayer, Devon the Stoner and Stuart the Traveling Musician whom he'd met in Istanbul. So, only two male bed partners … and Devon didn't really count because he was stoned and Xander was drunk and they'd agreed to never speak of it again. So.

He suddenly noticed that the sun had almost set and they were standing in the open day market, which had grown silent and still. Not an ally cat or a rogue dog to be seen. It was unnerving. Zaida narrowed her eyes and tapped his shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"I feel … spying." She said, quietly. Xander frowned,

"What do you mean?" He asked, lowering his voice too.

"Spying, you know? Like someone is … watching. Spying. On us. I feel it in my soul." Zaida whispered, flexing her muscles, preparing for a fight. Xander nodded. He'd learnt to trust Zaida's instincts. His were all to shit.

"So, what do you think it …" The words died in his mouth when he saw **Her**. He grabbed Zaida's hand and ran for all he was worth, but it wasn't enough. He wasn't fast enough and Zaida was ripped away from his grasp and he stumbled to the floor.

"Naughty kitten! Trying to run away from your mummy!" Drusilla cooed, holding a struggling Zaida with an iron grip. Xander roared and leapt to his feet, running at her. He was swatted to the floor like an irksome fly. Drusilla giggled. "I like it when you get angry, my little precious gem. You go all nasty and wicked." She giggled again, casually snapping Zaida's neck and dropping her to the floor. Xander started to shake. "My pretty petal," She cooed, "I'm going to leave you for today. Was going to munch and crunch you, but you've put on a good show for your mummy. Good boy." Drusilla reached down to pat him on the head and giggled when he flinched away. She reached forward and grabbed his hair in a painful grip, pulling him to his feet and throwing him towards Zaida's body. "I'll be seeing you, pretty petal. The stars 'ave been singing. Mark my words – we'll be seeing a lot of one another." Then, she was gone.

Zaida was on the floor and there was blood pooling beneath her and, oh god, she wasn't moving. He crawled to her side, heart racing as he tried to spot where Drusilla had gone. He vainly searched for Zaida's pulse, but he already knew she was dead. Courtesy of a Sunnydale education. She was perfectly still, which her mouth frozen into a twisted scream.

Xander stumbled backwards and threw up onto the dirty cobbles.

He heard shrieks again and spun around. They were the screams of a woman, looking at him with fear and horror. Men began rushing towards him from inside the houses, shouting angry words, raising their fists. He didn't need to know exactly what they were saying. He could guess.

With one last glance at Zaida's corpse, he ran. He ran and ran until the shouts were in the distance. He ran until he was in his apartment, throwing everything he could carry into suitcases and calling the airport and reserving tickets. He ran until he was seated on the plane, headed for LA and then on to Sunnydale, the place he'd never wanted to return to.

He knew that from that day onwards, he would always be running.

To be Continued.


End file.
